Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I take the steps to the porch. “Hey, Dad.”
“Quinn.”
He sounds distracted, and I continue past him to the door. I’m reaching for the doorknob when he stops me. “What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I thought we could grab a bite at the diner.”
I hesitate. We haven’t been out to dinner since the picture came out, like he’s been ashamed to be seen with me in public.
“Are you sick?” It’s the only explanation I can think of.
He frowns. “Of course not. I just thought it would be nice not to cook. How about it?”
“Sounds good.” I feel like a shaken soda can. We’re turning a corner, and it’s anyone’s guess what’s waiting around the bend. Based on past experience, it’ll be a brick wall. I leave him to ponder the mystery of his dead garden.
Later, we climb into my father’s truck and spend an awkward ten minutes driving to the diner. We’ve forgotten how to speak to each other. He knows next to nothing about me—at least none of the important stuff. I don’t want to talk about his job or the military or Carey.
We settle on the weather. I’m not sure who brings it up first, but we both latch on to it.
“I think we’re going to get some rain this weekend.”
“It’s pretty cold out.”
“Summer’s probably coming late.”
“I’ll be glad when it warms up.”
Brilliant.
Inside Sweethaven Café, the scent of thirty years of burnt coffee, bacon grease, and cigarette smoke greet us. Michelle Lovell hasn’t allowed smoking in the café in years, but the stench lingers though people no longer tap their ashes into ashtrays. If it wasn’t our only option for a night out in town, I’m not sure anyone would come here.
Veronica Lovell greets us at the hostess station, her nutmeg hair twisted back with a clip, a once-white apron tied around her waist. She graduated last year. We’d been friends, but I haven’t seen much of her since she left for college in August. She’d managed a hefty scholarship with her grades, as her mom, Michelle, had proudly told everyone who walked into the café last year. Last I heard, she was living in Boston.
She surprises me with a smile and a hug when she sees me. “Hey, Q.”
I hug her back a little tighter than I should. She’s genuinely happy to see me, and I wonder if the gossip has somehow bypassed her. “Hey, Ronnie. What’re you doing back here?”
Her nose wrinkles, folding her freckles together, and she leads us to a booth. “I’m taking a semester off. Dad broke his leg, and he and Mom needed me home to help out.”
Her father is cook, while her mom runs the front. Without help, her parents could easily lose the café.
I touch her elbow. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
She shrugs and brushes away her brown bangs with her forearm. “What’re you gonna do?”
My father and I slide into opposite sides of the booth, and Ronnie hands us menus. Before she leaves, she says, “Not a lot of vegetarian options on the menu, Q, but I’ll see if my mom can throw together some veggies and pasta for you.”
“That’d be great. Thanks, Ronnie.”
The diner is busy tonight, and I open the menu to escape the eyes I feel eating us up.
“What was that about?” my father asks. He nods toward Ronnie and adds, “The vegetarian thing.”
Uncomfortable, I shift in my seat, tucking a leg underneath me. “I don’t eat meat.”
My father sits on his side of the booth, and nothing about him looks relaxed. Perfect posture, perfect regulation hair, perfect record, imperfect daughter. I’m the weight throwing his life out of balance.
For so long, he avoided looking at me. Now, he stares like I’m an alien being. Someone replaced his perfect daughter with this thing I’ve become, and he doesn’t know how it happened or what to do with me.
“Since when?” Skepticism rounds out the question.
Squaring my shoulders, I say, “Since we took a field trip to that farm.”
I’m not sure who’s bright idea that trip had been, but one look at the chicken slaughterhouse had pretty much decided it for me. Carey had teased me for weeks.
Ronnie drops a basket of bread on the table and walks away in a hurry when my father frowns at her.
“That was more than a year ago,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He sounds angry, and I toy with a breadstick from the basket. Because I kept waiting for you to see me. “How could you not notice?”
It’s the closest I’ve come to disrespecting him. His wintergreen eyes narrow, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I am saved by Ronnie returning to take our order. A salad and the pasta for me, and a burger for him.
He crosses his arms over his chest. The way he’s focused on me is disconcerting after having been ignored for so long. It’s a struggle to keep myself from fidgeting. Finally he says, “I really don’t know you anymore, do I?”
I can’t be sure, but I think he sounds a little sad. “I didn’t think you wanted to. Not after . . .”
I can’t say Carey’s name. His name has this power now to kill the joy in any room. What if saying it reminds my father to hate me?
He’s silent, and I’m disappointed. At least he doesn’t lie and deny the truth, though. Our food arrives and it could be any other night at our kitchen table. He asks me about my homework and school, and I give my usual answers of “Done” and “Fine.” I peer at my plate to avoid the curious stares I imagine.
When my plate is clean, I wipe my mouth with a napkin and catch my father eyeing my empty plate. His lip curls in a small smile.
“That’s the most I’ve seen you eat in months. I guess now I know why.”
Humor laces his tone, and I can’t hide my shock.
He props an arm over the back of the booth. “You could’ve told me, you know. I wouldn’t have forced a steak into you.”
I take a chance on his lighter mood. “But then Rueger wouldn’t be so fat and happy.”
His eyes widen as he makes the connection between the dog’s round body and my half-eaten dinners. I wait for the anger to resurface, but he surprises me again by laughing.
“Carl’s had him on a diet for weeks,” he says. “He can’t understand why Rueger’s gaining weight.”
He laughs again, and I join in. How long can this last, the two of us getting along? Especially once the blame starts flowing again. What if this cease-fire makes it more painful to withstand the next battle? I sober up. I’m not sure I can handle that.
My father reaches for my hand and I yank it back without thinking, closing ranks to protect myself. He looks sad, but not surprised, at my response.
“I’m trying, Quinn,” he says, tossing some money on the table to cover the check.
Trying to make up for the way he’s treated me? Trying to be nice for a change? I’m not sure what the answer is, and I’ve been trying to be indifferent after he cut me for too long to act otherwise.
On our way to the door, my father is stopped by one of his work buddies. Sergeant McIntosh and he start talking base politics and I lose interest in seconds. A table near the window catches my attention.
Blake and Angel sit across from each other. They’ve never really been friends, and seeing the two of them together hits me like an out-of-body experience. He leans toward her in an intimate way that makes me want to scream. Without meaning to, I walk toward them, and I’m right on top of their table before they notice me. Angel’s quiet voice comes to a halt.
Blake pulls away from her suddenly, and if I wanted to, I could read it as guilt. Except that we aren’t together. In fact, less than a week ago, he told me how much he’d hated my guts for what I did to him. And haven’t I hated him, too, for letting me take the blame for an angry kiss he instigated?
“Hey,” Angel says. “How’s it going?”
Her voice has none of the anger i
t had that night in the hotel, and I don’t know what to make of it.
“Good,” I answer, not meaning it.
“You came here alone?” She sounds a little incredulous. Honestly, I would never think of coming here alone.
I gesture over my shoulder to where my father is shooting the breeze with his friend. “No. My father and I had dinner.”
“Ah,” she says. “That makes more sense.”
Blake still hasn’t said anything. I wonder if these two are dating now. He didn’t mention it in DC, but then, why would he? It’s not as if we owe each other anything. But Blake doesn’t even say hi, and something in me won’t let him ignore me.
“How’s Mrs. Breen, Blake?”
“Okay, I guess. The same.”
Not good, then. I already knew that, though, based on what I’ve seen of her. I can’t think of anything else to say to Blake or Angel, and it’s too late anyway. My father calls my name, and he’s waiting by the front door.
“I’ve got to go. Later.”
I turn, but Angel grabs my hand. “I saw the pictures you took of the senior trip. They’re really good, Q.”
It’s not a lot, but it’s something. I smile and squeeze her fingers. “Thanks, Ang. See you around.”
She lets me go, and I force myself not to look at Blake.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for me to stop looking backward.
Chapter Twenty-One
Escaping the past isn’t as easy as I’d like it to be.
The next day at the hospital, I have a long visit with George in the atrium. There’s a new tension to our time together now, since he told me about Charlie. I suspect he’s waiting for me to confess the truth about Carey. I care about George, but he’ll wait forever if he thinks I’ll talk about the secret I’m keeping.
We are frustrated with each other. It shows in his impatience with me during our lesson and in my bad attitude when he tells me I’m framing a shot wrong. I want to tell him to back off, that our time together is my escape from all the other crap I have to put up with. He’s my one person free from any connection to Carey. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to hurt George’s feelings by snapping at him when I know he just wants to help me.
After our lesson, I push his chair back to his room. He’s giving me the silent treatment, and I’m tempted to ruffle his hair to mess with him. I give in to the urge, and he turns to scowl at me.
“Brat,” he says.
I smirk. “Grouch.”
He hits the brake on his chair. Walking full steam ahead, I can’t stop in time and end up ramming into the back of the chair. Childish but effective. Score one for George.
We both snicker.
“Sophie?”
I look up guiltily, expecting one of George’s nurses to reprimand us for goofing off.
My mother stands ten feet away. She clasps her hands to her mouth as if to hold in a sob. Her blue eyes water.
George has to wonder who she is, but I can’t find the words to explain. I have no idea what to do, caught between fight or flight. A warm, calloused hand clasps mine and steadies me.
“Mom,” I say, and it’s amazing how frigid my voice sounds.
She wants to rush me. To hug me. I can see it in the tight way she carries herself, as if she’s at the starting line of a race before the gun goes off. I’m glad she holds herself together because I don’t know what I’d do if she tried to hug me.
“Sophie,” she says again, and the tears hanging on her lashes fall.
“Stop crying,” I demand. My words are harsher than I intended, but something about her tears pisses me off. What does she have to cry about? She got the life she wanted, didn’t she?
“I’m George.” He wheels toward her, holding out a hand for her to shake.
She reaches out her hand to shake his, but he clasps it instead. I know he’s acting as peace keeper for me, but I hate that he’s so gentle with her.
“Nice to meet you, George. I’m Sophie Quinn.”
He grins at her in wonder. “Is that right? You and Sophie have the same name.”
“Except for our middle names,” I interject. “Mine’s Topper, after my sainted uncle.”
I want to add a lot more to that statement, but not in front of George. Lucky Mom. Little blisters of rage bubble up all over my body.
My mom gives me this uncertain look. “Yes, well . . . It’s so good to see you, Sophie. I’ve missed you.”
Right. Sure you have. I focus on a spot somewhere over her head.
She adds, “Can I speak with you? Alone?”
I’m about to refuse her when George steps in again. “Of course you can! I’ll go ahead and get out of your way. Sophie here was just saying how much she wanted a cup of joe.”
I ball my hands into fists. I hadn’t said any such thing, and the interfering geezer knows it.
My mother takes a tentative step in the direction of the cafeteria. George rolls his chair close to me and gives me an encouraging smile, but his voice is iron rebar. “Go on, now. It’s just coffee, kid.”
He knows my mother walked out on us. I’ve told him that much. I can’t believe how pushy he’s being. “George—”
“You’re in control here. Be nice.”
It would be easy to pretend I don’t know what he means. But George isn’t the type to let me off the hook. I throw another glance at my mother. She’s staring at us. It’s painful to see her so vulnerable, filled with such open hope and wanting. I could walk away. I already did it once at the café. Again, George’s presence stops me. He believes in me. Believes I’m better than everyone in town’s made me out to be. Damn it.
“Fine,” I bite off. I stalk past him and smack the elevator button. My mother follows me when the doors open. Before they close, George mouths Be nice and I almost flip him off.
“The canteen’s on the first floor,” I toss into the awkward silence.
“I know,” she answers.
Thank God for elevator music. I’d have to slit my wrists if there wasn’t something to study besides her. On the first floor, she trails after me, and it strikes me how different this is. When I was little, she charged everywhere, blazing a trail I couldn’t keep up with.
We order our cappuccinos and I realize I left my purse in George’s room. It kills me that she buys my $1.50 cup of crappy coffee. I don’t want to owe her anything. I grab a table by the window, and she sits across from me. Outside, it’s started to rain.
“Thanks for coming,” she says.
“Thank George,” I answer, and I can see the words cut her.
She gathers herself and tries to smile. It’s a dismal failure. “Edward said you were angry.”
I hate that she says his name. In my head, “Edward” stole her. But when she says his name, there is tenderness. It feels . . . apart from me and the life we had. Like there is more to her than I remembered or imagined.
“He mentioned you saw me before in the lobby. I wish you’d said something.”
I sip my coffee and it scalds my tongue.
“Are you not going to talk to me?”
I sigh. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to forgive you for walking away?”
Bingo. That’s exactly what she wants. I can see it in her eyes.
“Fine. You’re forgiven.”
Abandoning my coffee, I rise to leave. She reaches for me and I flinch. She’s left with her hand hanging in midair.
“Please, Sophie. Don’t go.”
I pause. I sink back into my seat, slouching with my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. I feel manipulated and pissed off and so freaking hurt I can’t breathe. Against my will, I begin to cry. “You have no right to come here. I’ve done okay without you.”
“I didn’t,” she says, her voice breaking. “I didn’t do well at all.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask with venom. “You had no problem leaving me at Grandma’s. You walked away like I was crap you couldn’t get off your shoes fast enough.”
�
�No! It wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like, then?” My raised voice draws eyes to our table, but for once, I don’t care. Let them look.
My mother tucks her hair behind her ear in a gesture I don’t remember. Her hair was too short to do that when I knew her. She must have a thousand habits I don’t know about. Her choice, not mine.
“It’s complicated,” she says.
I laugh. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?” I strike a fist on the table and she jumps. “Thank goodness you explained yourself. I feel so much better now.”
She folds her hands and stares at them.
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask incredulously. “I’m not eleven anymore, in case you haven’t noticed.”
She takes a deep breath. “You’re right, of course. I don’t know where to start.”
I plant both elbows on the table. “How about you begin with how you could leave me behind?”
I’ve thought about this for so long. Obsessed over it. Fantasized about reasons important enough to make her give me up. In my imaginings her reason always came down to life or death. If not for something so huge, she would never have considered leaving me. That’s what I told myself anyway.
Perhaps some of my heartbreak seeps through the cracks in my voice because she reaches for me again. This time I let her hand rest on my arm.
“It wasn’t about you, Sophie. I had to leave for myself. I was dying in that house, always waiting for your father to return. It was me or him, and I chose me.”
She means it. The sincerity pours from her. She doesn’t even realize how her explanation sounds to me. Mothers are supposed to put their children first: She chose herself. An ache starts deep in my chest, pressing on my lungs until I feel like I won’t ever be able to breathe again.
“You have no idea what it was like after you left,” I say quietly. “At first, I didn’t realize you weren’t coming back. When it finally hit me, I cried for days and days. Then the nightmares started.”
If I Lie Page 13